Author's Note: If anyone was wondering this fic and this chapter especially is an excuse to avoid writing anything more for Rolling in the Deep. I am horrified by where this story is going. So here's another useless oddball nazgul moment.

Once again under the pretence that Brenine is carrying the ring of power…. How she got the ring is a plot inconsequential and unexplainable plot device I am using for the sole purpose of writing fluff, to calm my pathetically meek heart. I need a hug and some tea.

If the Witchking got Horny

(After six thousand years of no physical attraction to anyone.)

AKA: If the Witchking had an Ounce of Morality

(After six thousand years of being a total- himself)

Alternately Titled: Love is Evol

As was becoming a common occurrence the Witchking was hovering over his bed, which had again been taken over by a young woman wearing his Master's ring. He no longer permitted her to leave his sight, nor did he allow her to go within ten feet the others for any reason, because he knew they were aware the sudden shift in his relationship with her, which up until the ring had inconveniently shown up- of all the times to find the thing. It could have waited to pop up at any other point in time, but a leisure ride through the southern land of Rohan with his favourite, and only prisoner in toe was not what he'd had in mind.

Still he couldn't leave out in wilderness for anyone to find, and because it had actually been Brenine who'd happened upon it first, along with his ingrained sense of servility toward it and by extension the one who held it, he couldn't just snatch it from her.

When an unwashed heathen held a god hostage, it wasn't a time for sword brandishing and threats; it was a time for haggling. And haggle he would have, if a little experimentation on the banks of the Entwash hadn't added an extra layer of complication to this already muddled affair.

After centuries, he'd laid eyes upon a woman he could see beyond the typical black silhouette that typically shrouded mortals, he found he wanted things. Things that were scandalous to even contemplate. As if a king openly kissing a prisoner wasn't in bad enough taste. His interest in the matter was not limited to the ring alone, but to the one wearing it as well.

Worse still was the knowledge that she was responsive to his advances, a little too shy at times, but on the whole was generally willing to let him get close. She didn't shy away when he ran his finger through her hair, or leant down to steal a kiss, or a bit of heat to warm him and carry him through the dark cold world he resided in, and he was shocked to find that he enjoyed the tender moments.

He wanted more of them, and for them to be drawn out longer as well, but could and probably would lead to places that Brenine was not ready to venture into.

But something had occurred to him. With the ring on she was physical for him in the same manner he was for her. He could- he lightly curled a lock of her auburn hand in his fingers, and grazed her temples with his knuckles, smirking at the soft noise she uttered in her sleep, as if aware of him.

A very uncomfortable feeling bloomed in his loins. He bowed his head.

It would be so easy to wake her, so easy to fall upon her and take her; to destroy her maidenhood and break her. He could do it. Under differing circumstances he might have. But she had his Master's ring, and to do something like that would risk her claiming it.

Besides, it had been hundreds- thousands of years since he'd been able to even contemplate indulging in physical pleasure, and with so few days to do so, he needed to savour every one. He needed to make this last as long as he could.

There was something else too.

It was a deep dark desire dredged up by a hope that had seemed foolish and unattainable since he'd become a wraith in the first place, but now it was possibility. Maybe….

When ruling Angmar there had been one thing he'd desired, one thing he couldn't do, even though he'd been married and had a Queen by his side, he had been able to touch her in the manner he could touch Brenine now, and therefore unable to produce a child. Now, maybe he could, and when his Master had his ring, and once again sent him north to gather armies to conquer the north in his name, there'd be someone to govern Angmar when the king could not.

As scandalous as the situation was already, sleeping with the woman so warm and so close with the ring on her finger calling him nearer was out of the question. By extension trying to procure an heir was also unthinkable. Nor could a bastard child become a prince. His Numenorean pride would never allow such a thing.

For a long while he stood, mulling over his conundrum, watching her breathe, and feeling her heart thumping with warmth and life, and listening to the ring as it begged to return home. The king was working on it. As long as the ring was on her finger it was near enough for him protect, and was all he could do for the time being.

Brenine's eyes roamed beneath her lids as she dreamt, and she shifted with a breathy sigh. He put his fingers to his lips and looked away. The fingers of his hand tapped against his thigh. He was in so much- the idea sprung up unbidden.

It was so simple. Lord Fuinur's prophetic words came back to him. He'd been furious with the other nazgul's insight, and now it gave him clarity. The answer to all his problems, well, most of them was so simple.

Immediately the Witchking crossed the room, grey robes swishing soundly. Pausing to adjust the black cloak draped on the back of the chair, he hastily settled. After pulling on his leather gloves he grabbed a few sheets of blank paper, ink, his stamp, and a quill.

Hastily he began writing, until his thin elegant script was arching, curving, and flowing over three sheets of paper. All the words were identical, except for the names the letters were addressing. And after reading over them, and deciding them satisfactory, he signed them: Witch King of Angmar, Lord of Minas Morgul, and stamped them with the image of a grinning skull upon a crescent moon.

Then he folded them the letters, and slid them into three separate envelopes which he quickly addressed and sealed. Rising he paused looked upon his sleeping prisoner relishing the warmth of pulsing blood and a beating heart from where he stood, before he forced himself to turn away.

Pausing at the door he uttered a quick incantation that would violently deter all uninvited persons from entering, which was quintessentially every person alive, and eight neither-living-nor dead-persons loitering in various rooms through the lofty, well to do inn he'd chosen as a resting place.

In truth the inn, as fine an establishment as it was, only had nine patrons at the moment. It seemed many of the patron had fled with tales of horrific ghost stories, and a few others had been promptly removed from their rooms, and since the nazgul's arrival the innkeeper had for some unfathomable reason been turning away would be costumers.

The hospitality the innkeeper displayed was unfounded but greatly welcomed. Of course one of the small sacks of gold coins the king travelled with had mysteriously gone missing. But he was fairly certain the innkeeper and missing money were completely unrelated. No, he positive the two had nothing to do with one another.

After all nazgul rich as they were, had hardly ever been depicted as ones to pay handsomely for nine rooms. Of course they did have a reputation to keep, and it would be horrid if word got out that apart from being terrifying to behold, they were otherwise decent guests.

With an unreadable expression, that was not blank, but too emotional to accurately figure out, the Witch King made to knock on Lord Fuinur's door.

The wooden barrier turned aside before he could.

"Good afternoon Sire. Would you like to come in?"

"I need these delivered to Minas Tirith. It is of the utmost importance that they arrive to their intended recipients as soon as possible. If thou can't enter the city, do not pass them to another party. Have them delivered by way of something…nice, like doves, or butterflies, ladybugs might work in a pinch."

"Yes… Sire…."

Fuinur quietly took the envelopes. None of the names were familiar to him, and the king;s request- doves, butterflies, and ladybugs….

The king had already turned to leave, and was returning to i room.

"Sire what are these?"

The king turned, face absolute stone, apart from the light in his eyes.

"Wedding invitations. Make sure they get to their intended guests tonight, or no later than tomorrow morning. I do not wish my bride alienated from her family on such an important day."